The Cellist of Saraneighvo
She awoke to the sounds of cannon fire rumbling like thunder in the distance. It had become the sad tradition for mornings in Saraneighvo since the war had begun. It would only be moments before the retaliatory barrage hit. If they were lucky, the shells would impact outside of town.
They were rarely lucky.
She felt the telltale tremor run through her, yet she never heard the blast. Weights seemed to pull down at the corners of her mouth. Her home, near what had been the city’s once-thriving center, was perfectly situated to hear every blast from the shells that were sent into Saraneighvo. If it was close enough, the deafening explosion would send her reeling shortly before the ensuing debris would fall upon her home like the summer rains. She preferred when they struck towards the outskirts of town.
She couldn’t hear the screams then.
Rising from her bed, she stifled a yawn with a hoof. Moving to the window, she looked to the east. The sun was hidden behind a veil of grey clouds, plumes of smoke, thick and black, poured into the sky, as if to choke the life out of the city. When had it been that she last saw the sun shine? How long had it been since she had felt its warmth on her face? She couldn’t remember anymore.
Her beloved home, proud Saraneighvo, once a beacon of culture and art, had been reduced to scarcely more than a smouldering husk. Where weeks earlier had been the opera house, the museum of art, the concert hall, now only mounds of rubble remained. The skeletons of countless buildings all dusted with snow rose from the ruins eerie reminders of what had been, not so long ago.
Ponies wandered aimlessly through the smoldering ruins. They huddled around small fires, their eyes hollow like the buildings around them. Some scavenged what few resources they could; some collected trinkets of the past, as though a small locket or toy could remove them from their troubles. Still, others wandered simply to wander, their minds lost along with their homes or families.
The only ponies left in the city were earth ponies and unicorns. The few pegasi that had lived in the city before had long since taken to the skies. While most ponies condemned them and slurred their names, none could blame them for escaping while they could.
Of those that remained, the mare had been luckier than most. Her apartment complex stood comparatively unscathed. The southwest corner had been torn apart in one of the first attacks, but the building stood strong as ever. It was one of the few left standing anymore, by luck or the influence of a higher power, she didn’t know. She didn’t care to know anymore.
Moving away from the window, she made her way to her cupboard. She had three pieces of hardtack left. They sat precisely where she had left them in a neat stack on a clean silken handkerchief. She took a single bite from the top one, grimacing as she did. She would trade them all for a good pot of tea in a quiet room, the dulcet sound of Johoof Sebastian Bach’s Cello Suite no. 1 playing in the background.
Her imagination wasn’t good enough to distract her from the reality of her situation. Try as she might to imagine she was nibbling a freshly baked scone with a hot cup of tea beside her, all she had was a mouthful of tasteless starch and a tin of dirty water she had boiled the night before to purify. It did little to quench her thirst, but it would suffice.
It had to suffice.
She allowed herself a quiet sigh, not for the first time wishing she had evacuated when they had been advised to. But how was she to know her city would become the battlefield? How was she to know it would all come to this?
With a quick shake of her head, she banished the thoughts from her mind. There wasn’t a point in regretting the past anymore. The past couldn’t provide the simple comforts or succor she desired.
She left half the hardtack for supper. She had to ration carefully; supplies were becoming increasingly strained as the emergency rations ran ever lower. Another drink of dirty water helped her swallow the last mouthful. She would have to collect more all too soon, an undesirable task if ever there was one.
Making her way to the bathroom, she observed herself in the mirror. Two amethyst orbs looked back to her, yet she scarcely recognized her own reflection. Her mane and tail, once long and flowing, had been cropped short. She had had no choice after so long. Without water to bathe with, there had been no way to control the raven locks. Even her iron-grey coat was filthy and unkempt.
The shell that had torn apart the west façade of the building had left a jagged crack through the reflective glass surface, splitting her image in two. Not so long ago, Octavia had spent days contemplating the crack. She had debated if it was some kind of metaphor as to the nature of ponykind. Perhaps it was the gods trying to tell her something about herself. Now, though, she recognized it for what it was: a simple crack in a piece of glass.
Taking her brush in a hoof, she did her best to clean up what was left of her mane and tail. Her coat was a lost cause and she had given up on trying to find her bowtie long ago. Still, she tried to look her best. Today would be a special day, after all.
From her closet she retrieved her winter coat. The black cotton had faded to a dirty grey, its fibers having become entrenched with ash, soot, and dust. Tears and scuffs marred the jacket as well, the shoulder having been torn open, leaving loose threads and sullied padding exposed to the elements. Like so many other things, though, there was nothing Octavia could do about it.
Wrapping what had once been a white scarf around her neck, Octavia reached a hoof under her bed. She pulled out a heavy, black case that was longer than she was from nose to tail. With practiced ease, she secured the case on her back and left the confines of her apartment.
The ponies she passed in the hall on her way out of the building paid her little mind. Their eyes followed her with but a moment’s curiosity before their attention faded; she paid them little mind in turn.
On the street, she saw a small group of soldiers marching through the streets. Nopony bothered begging them for help anymore. They all knew the soldiers had nothing left to offer the beleaguered civilians. She watched them pass, heavy, brown cloaks shielding their bodies from the cold breath of winter.
Once upon a time, the sight of a passing garrison made her feel safe. Then, when the war had arrived at Saraneighvo’s doorstep, she had felt gratitude, even a profound sense of patriotism. Eventually, as the siege grew longer and supplies grew shorter, those feelings faded, leaving only resentment and anger in their wake. Now, she felt nothing.
The soldiers’ attitudes had changed markedly as well. In the beginning they trotted down the streets in proud strides, heads held high and weapons at the ready. As the days dragged into weeks, their pride gave way to fear and constant manic activity. They had run about from hotspot to hotspot as though possessed, eyes wide in barely contained panic. Now, like the ponies they were charged with protecting, they had resigned themselves to fate. They wandered about town seemingly in a daze, only rousing to enter another bloody skirmish before falling back to their catatonic state.
Once the patrol had passed, she pulled her scarf over her nose and continued her walk. Past one of the neighboring apartments she saw a dead stallion, his body half crushed under the rubble of a collapsed wall. Blood dripped from between his lips, a sign he had been killed by one shell of the morning’s barrage. An older mare pulled at the blanket that hung loosely around his shoulders. Where the act would have horrified her once, she had grown used to the sight; after all, the dead had no need for warmth.
Pressing onwards she passed the emaciated corpse of a young filly. She paused beside the small body. Like all the others, the filly lay naked on the cold ground. What little she may have had was long since gone, taken for the living to use. It had been a few days since the cellist had passed down that street; there was no way to know when the filly had passed. Octavia wondered if she died alone, or if there had been a loving face there to hold her until she drew her final breath.
She shook her head; it was all such a waste.
Still she walked on, passing at least a dozen more bodies along the way. Most were civilians, caught in the unending crossfire, though a few soldiers in bloodied armor lay beside them. Everywhere she looked there were other ponies, collecting what little they could from the dead and loading them onto ramshackle wooden carts. She could smell the massive funeral pyres in the distance, the pungent stench of burning corpses wrinkling her nose and forcing a gag.
She could never get used to the smell, no matter how often the fires burned nor how many bodies were turned to ash. It brought water to her eyes, sickness to her empty belly, and would haunt her to her dying breath. She moved quickly to escape the oppressive smell, grateful her destination was upwind.
Octavia’s run took her past city hall, now nothing more than a pile of charred and crushed stone. It had been destroyed on the very first day of shelling. Nopony knew if the mayor had been inside when the first shells hit, or if he had fled the night before, bartering passage with the last pegasi to escape before the siege began. She shook her head, lips pulling into a frown.
Like so many things it no longer mattered.
Safely away from the overbearing smell, she slowed her pace to a steady walk through the ruined streets. Every step of her hooves left shallow tracks in the soot and snow. Rounding the corner, she found her destination. Her heart sank at the pitiful sight.
Saraneighvo’s concert hall had once been a majestic building. Barrel vaulted hallways with coffered ceilings were richly decorated by the finest artisans of the day. The halls had seen legendary composers and musicians from every era perform. Centuries of history, all reduced to rubble and ash in moments.
The great dome that had topped the auditorium had collapsed, leaving a pile of rubble where symphonies had been played. The north and east walls were now but ragged fences made of shattered marble and steel reinforcements. She didn’t dare think of how many souls were buried under the debris.
Octavia stood in silent reflection. She had played there many times before. Her father had played there for decades before retiring to the country with her mother. She had made countless friends there, brought audiences to tears with the pull of her bow. A lump built in her throat; she had poured her very soul into those hallowed chambers.
And now those memories were naught but another mound of ash-covered wreckage, a silent ghost of a nearly forgotten past. She observed a small group of ponies huddled together around a small fire they had made under the remains of the parlor. They spared her only a passing glance of curiosity before turning back to their fire. She walked past them, small chunks of marble crunching and clattering down the pile with every step she took.
Careful almost to the point of reverence, she placed the heavy black case down atop the pile where the stage had been. Unlatching three locks, she lifted the cover. There, laid securely in soft felt, was her prized cello. The polished wooden instrument bore the scars of its age in countless scuffs, scrapes, and dings. They gave it character, though, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
The ponies that had huddled in the parlor looked to Octavia with renewed curiosity; their eyes watched her balance the endpiece on a larger chunk of marble. Standing upright, she balanced her body with the instrument and readied her bow. She closed her eyes and waited, weary Saraneighvo’s mournful cry ringing in her ears like a clarion’s call. She took a breath, and pulled her bow across the strings.
Her cello sang for her home, the sonorous note crying out through the skeletal remains of the concert hall. Her body moved with the music; it became her, and she it. She needed no notes, no plan. Her city was her conductor; its pain her inspiration. Mighty Saraneighvo. Proud Saraneighvo. Dead Saraneighvo. Her cello would sing its final lament.
Ponies gathered from all around the block; weary faces watched her with tired eyes and hopeless expressions. For them, she played.
The cannons in the distance fired again, the thunder of the shots echoing off the hills around the ruins of Saraneighvo. Warmth blossomed across her face as a fireball engulfed a nearby building; it lingered barely a moment before vanishing in the winter cold. She felt the earth tremble under her hooves as each shell hit, yet still she played.
The return volley sounded from the opposite side of town. Shells crashed into the streets and buildings, scattering debris and ponies without discrimination. She heard the screams around her, she heard the frenetic hoofsteps as they scattered in all directions, she felt the tiny crumbs of the city fall over her like snow.
Yet still she played.
Inevitably, the shelling ceased. Silence again reigned over the ravaged city. Octavia paid it no mind, her bow moving across the strings, her music never faltering, and never failing.
Ponies gathered around her ruined stage: soldiers and civilians, mares and stallions, young and old. They listened with rapt attention on every note. Some smiled, others wept, but none could bring themselves to move.
She never saw them, never heard them. There was no Octavia, no old cello in her hooves. The mare and her instrument were one and the same, and together they gave voice to Saraneighvo’s cries.
There they stayed, until long after the ashen skies grew dark, the unseen sun disappearing below the horizon once again. Only then did she bring her song to its final refrain, the last note echoing through the city’s bones.
No applause greeted her, no bouquets of fragrant flowers were tossed at her hooves. Only the silent stares of the homeless ponies greeted her when she opened her eyes. Before long they too lost interest, drifting into the dark, unlighted streets.
Octavia put her cello away and closed the case, locking the brass latches. Again she lifted it onto her back and carefully made her way down the pile of rubble that had been her stage. She paused under the ruined parlor to warm herself at the modest fire those same ponies she had seen earlier maintained. They said nothing, but they did offer her the smallest of smiles.
Looking up, she saw the clouds had broken. The night’s sky was moonless and glittered with a thousand points of light. She smiled at the sight.
Returning to her small apartment, Octavia carefully slid the cello under her bed. She took a few minutes to collect more water in her tin, which she boiled over the stove top as she ate the other half of her hardtack. This time she drank the water while it was still warm. The heat it left in her belly almost fooled her into the illusion that it was one of the fine teas she enjoyed so dearly.
Climbing into her bed, she pulled the sheets up and blew out the lantern on her nightstand. For the first time in weeks she dared to dream. She dreamed of warm auditoriums filled with chattering, happy ponies, their bellies full of good food and their tongues loosened with fine drink. She dreamed of her symphony, filling their hearts with song and bringing their hooves to dance. All as it once was. All as it should have been.
She awoke to the sounds of cannon fire.
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And he's back with another one!
And OH! What a start to it all!
~Skeeter The Lurker
I have no words for this.
But i'll say "perfect" for now.
Damn, this was released RIGHT when I went to bed.
Oh well, I am happy to see it up. This was a glorious fic to read.
The next addition to his list has arrived. Fantastic start to it as well. I can't wait to see more of this come out. Best of luck with it Ruirik!
Sounds like the seige of Leningrad or Stalingrad during World War II.
I do hope that, if this story continues, it ends with her defecting to Amareica or something. She should really leave.....
3155234
He was the inspiration, yes, and I do quite like the TSO song. That said, the song I played while writing and that inspired the tone of the story was this one:
3155244
I must say that is a pretty good choice of music.
An... interesting story.
I will admit, I was half expecting you to bestow upon Octavia the same fate that Mozart got, albeit slightly different.
I am talking about how & when he died. Mozart died while composing the piece "Requiem" - Death Verse. I would not have been surprised had Octavia been hit by a cannon as she was playing it, or just the other piece.
Regardless, it's a pretty story that shows us the horrors of war and what it can do to people, but in a different way than usual. We usually see how soldiers gets mauled mentally, if you can phrase it like that. How their minds simply give up and they go almost insane. What you show is the fate of the civilians, what their fate is, how their lives are.
I don't really know what more to say. It's just... different, from what we usually see. Unique, I'd dare say.
3156114
While editing this, I actually compared this (and still do) to Slaughterhouse-Five.
3155322
Also, in case you didn't know, TSO's Sarajevo is a modified version of their original Sarajevo suite when they were known as Savatage:
3156390
I did.
As a matter of fact,
It's just common knowledge that the song is performed by TSO for those who don't dig into it's history.
So, apparently, you did know that.
It would be nice if the description said anything. So, what's this about?
3156481
Honestly, anything more descriptive would spoil the story, and I prefer to keep it vague. Give it a read if you haven't, it's not long.
3156469
My friend, I've seen TSO perform live every year for more years than I care to admit
Absolutely amazing! I've always enjoyed reading your more lighthearted works, but only now do I see how good of a writer you really are.
And yet this fic made me pretty sad. Whether a fictional story or not, It never ceases to amaze me how one can capture the sadness of our reality and transpose it to a world of their own.
Impressive.
Yay!
My favorite author is putting out some new ideas for stories...words cannot begin to describe the unalienable actions that I would go through to ensure that my favorite author is satisfied with his works of art. 
Always a pleasure <<<Ruirik>>>
Amazingly well written, a very immersive style.
Good job.
This story actually makes me wonder if it should have been written. Not because it's bad (it isn't, at all), but because the subject matter it deals with might not be something you want to directly reference in an MLP fanfic. I've been to Bosnia, including Sarajevo, multiple times before, I have seen many of the grim reminders of the war, and talked to many people who have had to live through it. It was not a heartwarming experience, to say the least.
Anyway, good job! It's a phenomenal story, and it gets my thumbs up. Like I said, the only thing I think is "wrong" with it is that I am a bit uncomfortable with "paying tribute" to certain events using certain mediums.
3157758
Read Slaughterhouse-Five and All Quiet on the Western Front. Many said that those books shouldn't have been written, too.
An excellent tribute. Well written, without pulling punches on the subject matter.
I'm somewhat assuming you're basing this off of The Cellist of Sarajevo, by Steven Galloway; the narrative makes similar notes to his.
Apologies if this isn't the case, and you simply decided to bring a historical event that truly should be more well known (that is, the cellist of Sarajevo) to a wider audience.
Kudos, no matter which.
3158640
I never read the book actually. My knowledge of the Cellist of Sarajevo came from the Savatage song (now the staple of Trans-Siberian Orchestra) and reading an article online. The idea struck a chord with me (pun not intended) and has stuck with me for a long time now. What motivated this man, what did he see? What did he see? How did that effect him?
which leads me to...
3157758
I am not bosnian (greek is the closest thing I have to an ethnic background) nor have I ever been to Europe. That said I know this is a touchy subject, which is why I tried to be as respectful as possible when writing this. I can't argue that this needed to be written, the war certainly has nothing to do with pony, and Octavia's backstory certainly doesn't demand this. At the same time a lot of war stories tend to focus on the soldiers and their suffering. I've always found it much more interesting to study conflict through the eyes of the bystanders.
3158138
I have. As far as I could tell, neither are MLP fanfics.
Don't get me wrong. This story is good, but I'm not sure it is appropriate to directly base a fanfic on something like the siege of Sarajevo.
Well, maybe it's just me...
3158989
To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure how "direct" the story is. My knowledge of the Siege of Sarajevo is limited to "there was a siege of Sarajevo" and Vedran Smailović. The details for the story itself were more based from a combination of the siege of Berlin and Stalingrad. So I'm curious, is your discomfort because of your ties to Bosnia and the people of Sarajevo? Or would you have the same qualms with a fic based of the Massacre at Malmedy, the Rape of Nanking, or the Trail of Tears?
No disrespect, I'm simply curious. Thanks for thumbing it up and I'm very glad you read it!
3158980
To be honest, I praise, and have utmost respect for both the effort and your intentions. Indeed, very few people know about the horrors that the people in Sarajevo (not to mention the entire Balkan region) had to live through, so I applaud anyone who makes an attempt to pay tribute to them (or at the very least mentions them).
I have no direct ties with the people of Bosnia, but I have been there several times. You actually managed to get pretty close to the accounts given by the people who lived through it (I could tell you about the tank that would find itself a neat little vantage point on top of a hill, from where it could then start shooting at people who gathered at the market every day to get some food, but that's another story for another day).
It's not really this particular subject that I find a bit sensitive when it comes to adapting real-life stuff in an MLP fanfic, although the name of this fic did remind me of my experiences, which is why I've read it in the first place. I would say the exact same thing about those other examples you've mentioned: To me, certain subjects just "don't feel right" when adapted by certain mediums (unless, for example, they make an indirect reference). I guess it's the same reason why... I don't know... Teletubbies doesn't have an episode where they talk about the atrocities of Pol Pot, or why I won't do an MLP adaptation of the Hungarian Revolution of 1956. I might write something inspired by it, but definitely would not create any obvious links between the two...
Bottom line: good story, and I praise the effort, it's just that this kind of subject matter is a bit sensitive for me (and I don't even know what someone who is actually from Bosnia would say...)
3158980
I see. Nonetheless, this is a very well written fic. Again, kudos.
3157758 oh don't downvote the man, people. He's not shitting on Ruirik. It's okay to raise concerns.
Sheesh. Internet.
Have a balancing upvote just cuz people are being silly.
3160030
Heh, no need, but thanks anyway!
I think I managed to voice my opinion in a way that comes across as me bashing this story, and people took offense to that, which was not my intention. If that is the case, then I apologize.
3160030
Speaking of people on ye olde internet machine, how'd you like it?
3160483 it was good but a little further along the serious spectrum than I was really in the mood for at the time I read it. I need my mood to take a sharper upswing before I can really enjoy it.
Kinda cranky lately. Shoves me more toward comedy and fluff, y'know?
Oh my God... This was beautiful and powerful. A work of art
3160580
Thanks very much
Wow. Emotional and chilling all rolled into one. And inspired by a real event as well. Tough to read if only due to the subject matter. Liked/faved/followed.
Finally found some time to read this..
and I have to say; This story reminds me of the times my grandfather told me about his youth. I was very young when he told me his stories and he was very graphic about it, and it shocked me back then. After all, I grew up in a safe world, and war was more or less a game, but nothing serious in my childish mind. And today, this reminded me of exactly that.
Even through one could argue about the medium (like 3157758 pointed out, and I totally understand his point), I think those kind of reminders and tributes to the victims are important.
The fic itself was very enjoyable written so well deserved fav and thumb up.
My thoughts on this story can be found here.
3165382
At first I was nervous as hell to click that link. Now all I can say is I'm thoroughly flattered. Thank you.
Before reading the comments wanted to ask if your Bosnian but guess your not.
Ill definetly read it coming from the same region (Ex Yugoslavia) just a neighboring country.
I was born just at the beginning of the war so i have no first had experience or anything, still i know enough of how bad it was from stories and reading about it.
The siege lasted for almost 4 years what is the longest siege of a capital in modern history.
3165545
I certainly hope you...well, maybe "like" isn't the proper term. Given your history with the region though, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Wow.
words can not explain the greatness of this story thats all I can say
It's stories like these that remind me how important literature is in regards to reminding us everything isn't peaches and creme and gasoline. You captured in so few words an air of hopelessness I hope never to feel beyond the pages of books.
Emotional and powerful. Enough to make one think philosophically about it, it being the story or even life in general...
A very touching depiction of despair, indeed. Not as dark as it might have been, but powerful enough to touch. Could we get a plot to go with this, please?
3313968
We need a sacrifice. One Spitfire and one Rainbow Dash plushie will do.
3314105
Oh, you're wicked. I like it.
Wow... Randomly happened upon this story while surfing the web, and the title instantly caught my eye, though I really can't say way, other than maybe my recent studies of World War I, where Serbia was heavily involved. That being said, the story itself was absolutely phenomenal and did an amazing job, I feel, of capturing the sadness of war, as well as the completely emotionlessness (if that's even a word) of the civilians caught in the cross-fire.
It also led me to search for the novel by Steven Galloway (that someone mentioned up there in the comments) and I can't wait to start reading it.
tl;dr. absolutely amazing job writing this. It was incredible.
Beautiful, just beautiful
First time I don't want to comment, because words cannot describe this...
Let silence be the best commentary...
I don't really know what to make of this, but it was perfect.
You really captured a feeling of powerful, oppressing despair. It was gruesome without going overboard, and very touching in all elements. Not a happy read, but a great one anyway.
Wow. Just wow.
The story captures the hopelessness, the sadness, the reality of the situation. It shows how the lives of ponies change during times of war, the despair they feel. An emotional read, indeed.
Barely any words can express how I'm feeling right now. Let's just say that it feels like you've punched me right in the feels.
However, I did find punctuation mistakes, if they be could considered as such.
Some commas have been missed.
Other than these, this has been a wonderful story. You sir, are a terrific writer.
Time for me to read Wind and Stone.